


An Oath of Allegiance

by EllaStorm



Series: Oath [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: (I'm still crying), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, I have a lot of feelings about this Lórien scene, Legolas and Arwen are very background, Lothlórien, Missing Scene, Multi, and I don't even know if this counts as, anyway, let there be emotional king on steward sex, or just, or just makes it worse, yet I am not certain whether this fixes anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14279451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: There was a time when Boromir hated the idea of Aragorn as the rightful heir to Gondor's throne; but it has been long since. In Lórien Aragorn and Boromir find comfort within each other, and an oath is sworn.





	An Oath of Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> I watched these movies for the first time when I was ten and I can still hardly believe this is my first LotR-story. I hope it's a good one.
> 
> (Arwen was my favourite as a kid, and I refuse to ignore her, even if that means my OTP is getting infuriatingly complicated. Also, Liv Tyler was kind of a part of my sexual awakening, so there you have it. She stays.)

“ _The lords of Gondor have returned._ ”

The buckskin of Aragorn’s tunic felt like an affirmation under Boromir’s hand, a bridge to their joint future at the gleaming towers of Minas Tirith; not rivals but brothers in arms, a king and a captain, linked in friendship and devotion. A surge of enthusiasm took hold of him at the mere thought. It was hard to imagine that he had disliked, outright _despised_ Aragorn and the thought of _him_ on the throne of Gondor only a month ago. _Just a cowardly ranger from the north,_ he remembered his own cogitations. _Not deserving of the kings’ blood running through his veins._ Oh, he had been blinded by his arrogance.

Aragorn might be wearing a ranger’s clothes. But Aragorn was not just a ranger. He had never been just a ranger.

He was taking care of the fellowship and those in it with the deep and honest dedication of a great leader, and he’d never needed a crown to summon respect among them. His authority stemmed from his heart, not from the lands he ruled, and it resonated with each and every one of his companions, Boromir included. Aragorn had been holding them all together like a golden thread, connecting frayed ends until they had begun to forge themselves into the unit they were now, a unit that might just, odd as it was, be strong enough to make it through the rest of this dangerous journey.

Even after the pass of Caradhras. Even after Khazad-dûm.

It had taken Boromir a while to understand, and even longer to accept, but Aragorn was more of a king here than Boromir’s father would ever be in the halls of Minas Tirith. Denethor’s rule was failing, because he had only ever commanded his people’s hands and feet. Never their hearts.

Looking at Aragorn now, Boromir saw what he hadn’t been able to see in Rivendell, and he knew with a strange certainty that if Aragorn asked for an oath of allegiance here and now, Boromir would get to his knees and swear it without so much as a second thought.

Yet Aragorn didn’t give the impression that he shared Boromir’s enthusiasm. In fact, his eyes were overcast, clouded, like he was thinking on something sorrowful; and Boromir’s joyous emotions slowly ebbed away. He took his hand off Aragorn’s shoulder and turned his eyes towards the curves of delicate winding stairs, clinging weightlessly to the trees around them. A soft gust of wind whispered through the branches of the bushes to his left, caressing his face and carrying an otherworldly scent with it, reminding him that he didn’t really belong here. This was elven domain. He wondered if Aragorn felt at home here. He had done so in Rivendell, but-

“It’s not that I don’t want to see the white city again,” Aragorn said, quietly, and Boromir turned back to him. The blue in his companion’s eyes was still overshadowed by grey. “Or that I don’t want to ride with you.”

Aragorn’s hand rested on Boromir’s shoulder for a few moments, and something inside Boromir’s chest released its grip, leaving air to enter his lungs more freely. He hadn’t even noticed that it had been there, but now he felt its absence all the stronger.

“Something is weighing on you,” he said after a while, examining Aragorn’s unreadable expression. “And it is not just what we lost in Moria.”

“No. Not just…” He sighed. “Not just Gandalf.”

It seemed as if uttering his name was still painful to Aragorn. Boromir couldn’t fault him. He hadn’t known the wizard for long, but Gandalf’s loss pained him, too. The one that each of them had always turned to for advice and counsel, who had always known a way out of the darkness, had fallen into the abyss. And apart from the loss itself, Boromir couldn’t help but regard Gandalf’s fall at Khazad-dhûm as a bad omen for their future...

“I’ve hidden away from the people of Gondor for two decades, from my responsibility to them as an heir to the throne. Tell me, what kind of leader does that make me?”

Boromir opened his mouth to answer, but Aragorn didn’t let him. The words were coming out faster now, and the look in his eyes grew grimmer. “This fellowship was a risk to begin with, and now without Gandalf, how will it hold? I don’t believe I can keep us together for long. It would take a stronger man than me to do so.”

Something very close to anger rose in Boromir’s stomach at these words, and he clasped Aragorn’s shoulder with his hand, firmly, and forced Aragorn’s mildly surprised gaze upwards, until he could look him in the eye.

“A stronger man than you, Aragorn? And who would that be? My father? Me? Neither he nor I could have held this fellowship together until now. It would have broken long ago. I fell victim to my arrogance in Rivendell when I spoke to you the way I did. But I see more clearly now. I have fought by your side, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. And I am not only speaking for myself. Legolas, Gimli, the hobbits, we all stand by you. We all have faith in you. You have found a way to take us here from the doors of Moria, when we thought we would never move again. You are already keeping us together, Aragorn. A stronger man than you, you say? There is none.”

Aragorn’s expression had turned into something indecipherable again, and for a moment Boromir feared that his words might not have reached his companion's ears; but then, most unexpectedly, Aragorn’s warm, sword-calloused hand clasped the side of Boromir’s neck and his forehead sank to Boromir’s temple. They had never shared this kind of closeness before; and now that they did, Boromir realised, startlingly, that he had wanted this for a while, had wanted Aragorn to trust him, because he trusted Aragorn, had wanted Aragorn to let his guard down, so he could let his own guard down as well.

Boromir caught himself wondering how far this need for warmth and comfort went among the two of them, and memories stirred inside him. As captain of Minas Tirith’s outpost in Osgiliath he had seen some terrible nights. Ork attacks in the nearby villages, blood, mayhem, sickening cruelty, dead wives and children. His men had needed comfort more than anything on those nights, and on the nights following. Most often they’d sought it in each other, and most often they’d found it there. Boromir remembered falling asleep in his Lieutenant’s bed and waking up to a warm body, a new morning upon him, and the certainty that there was hope.

 _Even now, there is hope left._ The Elven Queen's voice still rang in his ears, and his hand came up from Aragorn’s shoulder to lightly rest on his head, less than deliberately. The dark hair felt surprisingly soft under his fingers, softer yet than the buckskin of the tunic had, and Boromir held his breath, half-scared that he would lose Aragorn’s warmth in a second, but Aragorn’s hold on Boromir only strengthened and his warm breath touched Boromir’s cheek when he spoke again.

“You say, that it’s long that we’ve had any hope, Boromir,” Boromir shuddered slightly at his name rolling off Aragorn’s tongue in a whisper. “And yet you speak of faith. How can you have faith but no hope?”

Boromir’s hand drifted down over the side of Aragorn’s face, until it reached his chin, lifting it. The blue in Aragorn’s eyes was no longer overcast, but there was a questioning expression inside it, searching Boromir’s features for an answer that he was only too glad to give.

“Hope is indifferent. Hope, you have to place among the stars. Faith, like trust, you can place in a man. Someone you can follow and fight with. Someone you can touch.”

His thumb dared to caress the dip of Aragorn’s chin, ever so slightly.

And then he didn’t have to wonder about Aragorn’s desires any longer, because Aragorn’s lips came to his with slow deliberation, leaving him time to turn away the offer. Nothing could have been further from Boromir’s intentions. He returned the questioning kiss vigorously, burning up the space between them with his fervour, and it took Aragorn a moment, before he buried his fingers in Boromir’s hair and softly opened his mouth against him, letting him in.

Boromir slowed down a little bit, then, restrained his urges and let Aragorn take the lead, who seemed unhurried in exploring Boromir’s mouth, no sign of the heated pushing and pulling Boromir was used to from his previous encounters with men; though, he had to say, this calm approach to carnal love fascinated him. Maybe it was more the way of the immortals Aragorn had grown up with than that of men. When they stopped kissing for a moment to breathe Boromir found his fingers tangled in the laces that held Aragorn’s tunic in place on his chest. His eyes fell on the gleaming pendant there, white and silver in the half-light amidst the trees.

“What of the Lady Arwen?” he asked, even though he wasn’t sure whether he really wanted an answer to that. Boromir had seen her in Rivendell, had been taken aback by her beauty and her wisdom like so many before him; and Aragorn had spoken of her once or twice, too, along the way, a few brief sentences here and there, usually followed by a wordless conversation of long glances between him and Legolas that was entirely unreadable.

Aragorn took hold of Boromir’s hand and looked at him. The blue of his eyes was sharp, but not unpleasantly so.

“I will never love an elf as I love her, and she will never love a man as she loves me. But there are things only shared among elves, just as there are things only shared among men. The Lady Arwen knows this, as I know it. As Legolas knows it.”

Boromir raised his eyebrows at that. Suddenly the wordless conversations between Aragorn and Legolas started to make a lot more sense: He had always suspected that their affections had been stronger than mere friendship at some point; but maybe that impression stemmed from the fact that they were both connected in their love for the Lady Arwen.

“She will not take offence?” he asked, even though his innards urged him to stop talking and take what Aragorn was willing to give him without further inquiry.

Aragorn smiled and stroked Boromir’s knuckles with his thumb. “No. She will not.” He tilted his head. “But the others might. If we wake them.” He gave a nod to where their companions lay in blissful slumber, and Boromir felt heat rising in his stomach. This time it didn’t have anything to do with anger.

“Where-?”

“Follow me.”

Aragorn got up from the large root they had been sitting on and gave Boromir a small smile before he made his way over past the lamp-carrying stone statues and by the trees. Boromir hurried to follow.

They walked in silence for a while, through the forest of Lórien, filled with unearthly song; though the music soon grew quieter in the distance, supplanted by the slow ripple of water, and then Aragorn stopped, under the shielding branches of a large tree by a lake whose surface was as smooth as a mirror, calmly reflecting distant lights. The roots of the tree were far apart, far enough for men to lie comfortably between them, not unlike the ones they had rested on before, but here there was fragrant moss, too, growing on the ground, warm, dry and soft to the touch.

“I have one thing to ask of you, Boromir,” Aragorn said, in a low voice, and their eyes met. He held out his hand, and Boromir stepped over and took it, let himself be pulled in. Aragorn’s eyes were shrewd and alert, but full of softness, too, when he said: “Do not do this out of a sense of duty. I do not wish to force your hand, nor your heart. You are free to leave at any time.“

Boromir lifted his hand and touched it to the side of Aragorn’s neck, mirroring their position from earlier. There was skin and stubble under his fingertips, beneath it a pulsing warmth that promised to turn into heat given the right incentive, and Boromir knew what he wanted. He had known for a while.

“It is not duty that forces my heart.” His hand slipped back down over Aragorn’s shoulder to the laces of his tunic; and this time he untied them, then moved on to Aragorn's belt and loosened its knot. It took a while, but Aragorn let him do as he wished, and followed his movements when needed, until the layers of fabric had all been removed, leaving his upper body bare, save for the elven jewel around his neck. “The only thing that commands me is my desire to lie with you. Aragorn,” He pressed a kiss right next to the pendant of the necklace, whereupon Aragorn gave a small sound in his throat. Boromir could not hold onto himself any longer and kissed him, on the mouth, where his lips were met with a fiery approval that took him completely by surprise. He had prepared for Aragorn to be a lover he would need to slow down for after their first kiss tonight, but now he found himself matched with equal fervour; and he felt his blood coming to boil under his skin, when Aragorn pulled at his bottom lip with his teeth and started making swift work of Boromir’s tunic and breeches. A small, low sound escaped him, when he was pushed down on the soft moss, naked, where Aragorn did not immediately follow him to, busying himself with his breeches.

Boromir leaned back on his elbows and let his eyes drift over Aragorn’s silhouette, faintly illuminated by the otherworldly glow that seemed to find its way into every corner of Lothlórien. Aragorn’s cheeks had a small shimmer of red on them, and his dark hair reflected the light just as much as the surface of the lake behind him. Boromir saw older and fresher wounds and scars on his skin, not much unlike the ones he himself had all over his body; and when the last piece of fabric finally hit the ground, Aragorn turned his eyes back on him, blue cutting through the halflight and piercing right into Boromir’s green with barely hidden hunger.

“Come to me,” Boromir said, and Aragorn must have noticed the urgency in his voice, because a small smile spread on his lips before he let himself be pulled down as well, let Boromir put a possessive hand at the nape of his neck and kiss him like his life depended on it, before letting go for a moment to look at Aragorn with astonishment.

“When you kissed me before it was my impression that your idea of making love was more of the elven kind. Less…” Boromir slid his hand lower, right down to Aragorn’s centre and smiled at the soft groan he elicited when he found hard flesh. “…heat.”

“What gave you that impression?” Aragorn asked, stilling Boromir’s hand with his own for a moment.

“You were calm and unhurried against me. Slow. I have never loved an immortal, but this is what I imagine it must be like. Is this how you kiss the Lady Arwen? How she kisses you?”

“Often, yes. Not always. But often. And one day,” The corners of Aragorn’s mouth pulled up. “I might teach you the merits of slowness. Yet you are not the Lady Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell.”

All of a sudden, Boromir lay on his back again, stunned at the sudden change in position. Aragorn was hovering over him, his eyes brimming with heat. “You are Boromir, proud Captain of Gondor, and I shall love you as such.”

Boromir feared for a moment that his chest might burst with all he was feeling as he looked up into Aragorn’s eyes above him. With a decisive motion of his arms he took Aragorn’s face in his hands, returning his gaze. He didn’t know how much his eyes conveyed, but he assumed there was lust, and pride, and awe, all mixed together.

“Just like I shall love you, Aragorn, as my King.”

Their mouths collided, and in the heat between them, Boromir couldn’t hold onto a single thought, save one: that he had sworn his oath of allegiance, and he had sworn it well.


End file.
